The Dice

February 16, 2011
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One tanned and gangly leg is folded onto a chair,
The other is hanging limply
Allowing pink toes to mingle in fields of green shag.
She stares with bright eyes
At the ancient woman across from her.
The woman collects two little cubes with a shaking palms,
Enfolding them in wrinkles that once grasped at runaway chickens.
She lets the cubes roll around and then releases them.
The delicate clinking of plastic on faux wood
Is nearly drowned out by giddy giggling.
Two piercing snake-eyes stare back at the girl.

She smiles at the old being
Who does her best to send it back on a thin and age-battered mouth.
In a crackling voice, the woman speaks of her childhood farm,
And a husband who nearly left her toothy grin
For the roar of war.

The girl-with no hesitance-picks up the snake-eyes,
Letting them roll in her little palms
Before blowing candy coated breath on them.
The woman had taught her this,
To bless the game with carbon dioxide.

The girl looks up to see the woman,
Nearly invisible tears are dripping
Into deep crevices around her eyes,
They are the happy kind.
The girl opens her palms
And lets the dice drop.





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